


I Lied/Deal With the Devil/Blood-Splattered Wedding Dress

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Series: Short Prompt Fic! [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M, Prompt Fic, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6018906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short prompt fics! Multiple pairings (Kylux, Reylo, Rey/Hux), all for SW: TFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Lied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [machinewithoutfeelings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinewithoutfeelings/gifts), [cazzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/gifts), [ughwhyben (hakuen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakuen/gifts), [mythbusterposey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythbusterposey/gifts).



> Written for the prompts from the lovely all-day-every-day-Reylo-chat; you guys are AMAZING.

**For the prompt "I Lied, Kylo Ren/Hux"**

_Ren, you promised_ seems so -- inadequate. The words of a child who had asked for a treat and been denied -- a toy, a sweet, a holo. A visit. Entirely unfitting for what may be his last utterance, and yet he says it, tasting the blood on his lips as he speaks. Coughs. Tries again.

Ren’s cold, gloved hand is cradling his skull, each point of contact a dull, soft ache; his other hand, hot, living, is pressing into the ruined mess of his chest, dark, blackening red seeping through his fingers. Hux tries to lift his head, to look down at what remains, but Ren won’t let him, that damnable sorcery of his keeping him still, if not whole.

“I promised,” Ren says out loud, and Hux consoles himself with the fact that he is watching Ren’s mouth move, that at least he has had the grace to take off that dreadful mask. There is blood trickling down Ren’s temple as well, a thick, heavy line of it all the way down to his jaw, though it may not be his; it’s becoming increasingly hard to see. The stain of it obscures the side of his face, hides the little white scar on Ren’s cheekbone; he tries to reach out for it but his arm will not obey, though whether that’s Ren’s doing or his own failing this time, he cannot tell.

The temple wall is going to collapse; of that he is certain. The grey crumbling rock will bury the corpses already there, just like it will bury them, and Ren screws up his face like he is the one in pain, and slides his naked, bloodied hand around Hux’s shoulder.

“This is going to hurt. A lot,” he warns, and that is the truth; Hux grits his teeth and feels fresh blood bubbling up between his lips as he is hefted up into Ren’s arms, as Ren stands, a hard black monolith from which he cannot escape.

 _You promised_! he screams with every fiber in his head, knowing Ren will hear him. _You promised you wouldn’t save me_.

“I lied,” Ren says, his iron grip unwavering, and moves, as the first bricks hit the ground behind them.


	2. Deal With The Devil

**For the prompt "Deal With the Devil, Kylo Ren/Rey, SPN fusion"**

They had told her the crossroads. Midnight. She would need blood and fire and salt; fire for the calling, blood for him, salt to keep herself safe.

They didn’t know a goddamn thing. 

If fire or blood satisfied him -- if salt had ever kept him away -- well, if she had a dollar for every time she wished any of that, Rey would have -- probably enough to never have to do this again. Math was never her strong suit.

Kylo is watching her as she works, head cocked, flat black eyes staring at her out of Ben’s face. He is wearing all black, of course, and it’s not like they weren’t Ben’s favorite things, but it feels so wrong when he does it, and she knows he does it precisely for this reason. Under the canvas jacket -- the one she used to drown in when Ben draped it over her shoulders -- Kylo is wearing the old Pink Floyd t-shirt, once black, now worn in, almost grey from too many times in the wash. She switches her hands on the shovel, left on top, right on the bottom, and keeps digging, sweat starting to drip into her eyes, trying not to think of the way he’s spread out, arms akimbo, thighs apart, like he is sitting on a couch or in her bed, not on the cold cemetery dirt, graveside.

“You know, you could help,” she tells him. “I’m not exactly doing this for my own enjoyment.”

“Enjoyment? No. But it’s to our mutual benefit,” Kylo says, pitching his voice low. Sometimes she thinks she will never get used to it coming out of Ben’s mouth, but other times, like tonight, if she’s being honest with herself, she isn’t sure what Ben’s voice had sounded like, anymore. 

“Exactly. Our mutual benefit,” Rey says. “So, pull your weight. Besides, I know you could do this a lot faster.”

“And deprive myself of this lovely sight?” Kylo gestures with one large hand, like he’s trying to encompass everything: the cemetery fence in the moonlight, the pile of dirt she has already shoveled out of the grave, her increasingly grimy hands, the nails already limned black. 

“Fine.” He gestures again, almost lazily, and the rest of the soil sweeps up in one immense column, holding still in the night air for one long second before it joins the pile she has made. He has thoughtfully left her a ledge to stand on, and she jumps down next to the coffin, using her crowbar to pry up the lid. 

“The ring, is it there?” Kylo asks from above; she wrinkles her nose. She hates this part. She wrenches the ring from the dead hand anyway, and waits for Kylo to pull her up with his psychic strength. It had been unnerving at first, feeling him move her around however he wants, but she is used to it, now. And it is much easier than climbing out.

“Here,” she says, and deposits the ring into Kylo’s waiting palm. He twists it between his fingers before pocketing it. 

“That’s five,” he nods. “Good. Two more.”

“And then you’ll finally let him go?” Rey asks, and closes her eyes, feels Ben’s heavy hand land on top of her head, bury itself in her hair. 

“I’ll think about it,” Kylo says, and leans down to kiss her. Her cross, still defiantly worn around her neck, is as useless as the salt. He pulls on the chain as he bites at her lip, slides his tongue into her mouth. 

She sighs, and opens her eyes as their lips part; she doesn’t want to miss it. Kylo blinks, and for a moment, his eyes are just brown, the sclera white and human, not demon-black. But only for a moment. 

“Do you know where the rest are hidden?” she asks, and he shakes his head no. 

“Not yet. I will find out, of course,” he says, and takes her hand, leading her down to the cemetery gate. “But it may take a while.”


	3. Blood-Splattered Wedding Dress

**For the prompt "Rey/Hux, Blood-Splattered Wedding Dress"**

They would be wed by proxy, first, here, at D’Qar, as befitted the custom. 

She had expected this; their uncle, the Duke, and ambassador to Corellia at the time, had stood in proxy for her eldest brother. In fact, he had stood proxy for more than one member of the royal family; wed thrice, yet never a lady wife to show for it, he used to say, half in jest, half in regret.

He is pure rage now, circling the room with all the grace of a tromping bull. 

“This is an indignity. An insult. He sends The Butcher for my niece? That upstart whelp!” 

Her uncle’s thick neck is turning red, and her mother lays a delicate hand on his forearm.

“That upstart whelp is His Imperial Majesty, now. And it seems he doesn’t want to let us forget how he got there.”

Rey watches them argue, resigned; they will not stop until they have gone through the motions, though the deal is done. There is no turning back from this, not without the breaking of a treaty, and neither her mother nor her uncle are foolish enough to sacrifice peace for one moment of her life -- or whatever moments come after.

She will be wed, and she will hold The Butcher’s hand, will let him slide the ring on her finger, will ride beside him to Coruscant. Perhaps it is because she is too young; she wasn’t there for Hosnia, wasn’t there for Malachor, but she doesn’t fear The Butcher, Lord Ren. After all, he only goes where her true intended points; he may be the bringer of carnage, but it is the Emperor who wields that knife, and that concerns her much more.

“They say he serves the Emperor in every way,” her brother’s wife tells her later, in her chambers, as she supervises the final fittings of her gown. Rey is prodded and poked by needle and thread, laced and unlaced into too-tight stays, into rigid skirts, into scratchy cloth-of-gold. “You will be Empress, but not the first one.” 

Rey considers this as she looks at Lord Ren’s pale, angular face across the bench as they are knelt before it. He doesn’t look like a murderer any more than he looks like the Emperor’s lover, though she knows she has little enough reference for either. And while rumor of the second may be all it is -- a rumor -- the hand that holds hers has crushed out a hundred lives. A thousand. And so has the hand that will hold hers in less than a week. 

The journey is mostly uneventful. She is made to change on the border between D’Qar and Coruscant, in a tent they have put up for this very purpose; her clothes are taken away and replaced by Coruscanti finery; due to some ages old ritual, her D’Qarian ladies cannot help her, and she must dress herself in the Emperor’s gifts, tightening the laces as best she can, pulling the heavy jeweled collar around her neck. Most of the D’Qarian party will be returning home after this, only a select few continuing with her to the capital.

The Butcher guards the entrance; his gaze slides over her, almost disinterested, as she steps outside, shrouded in her new loyalties. 

“One more thing, my lady,” he tells her before she moves to the new carriage that will carry her from here on. “Another gift. Not from His Majesty; from me.” He slides the little dagger, heavy, into her palm. It is simple, with a plain hilt, strapped into a little leather harness. “It goes inside the sleeve,” he says, “if you will allow me,” and she lets him secure it on her arm with his pale, bloodless fingers.

She thanks him with an incline of her head. “I hope I do not have the need to use it any time soon,” she says, and for the first time, she sees The Butcher smile. 

“Do you? Pity,” he says, and holds the door of the carriage open for her.


End file.
